


Clanging Doorbell

by eatamilkbone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, EWE, Freeform, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), One Shot, Therapy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 07:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatamilkbone/pseuds/eatamilkbone
Summary: Draco somehow manages to pass the Fidelius of Number 12, appearing on Harry's doorstep bloody, broken and abused. Which then leads them both down a journey to answer the question whether Draco can ever be loved and whether he will ever be able to love anyone other than his abuser.





	Clanging Doorbell

**Author's Note:**

> Freeform writing - let's hope it makes sense. Comments much appreciated!

The old doorbell rang, clanging on a copper bell in the hall. Harry, startled for no one ever rang the doorbell, jumped from his place on the sofa and withdrew his wand at speed.

 

The house was still under the Fidelius Charm. And anyone who wanted to come to Number 12 did so by floo. This had been the way for the seven years Harry had lived here, post-Hogwarts.

 

Tentatively, Harry moved into the dark hall and called out. “Who is it?”

 

The doorbell clanged again and Harry stared at it accusingly. “Ron? George? Are you having me on?”

 

This time, demand for entry into the house came in the form of a soft banging on the door that started midway up the wood and slowly drifted to the bottom.

 

Harry went to the door and opened it, wand aloft and waiting for a hex to knock him off his feet and for a Weasley to jump out of the shadows and taunt him.

 

Instead, the curled and desperate figure of Draco Malfoy, bloodied and cradling his arm, looked up at Harry with pleading eyes.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry had got Draco on the sofa, ignoring how Kreacher was going to complain about removing the blood stains that were rapidly spreading out from Draco who’s baggy white t-shirt and greyed pyjama bottoms were struggling to keep him decent.

 

Draco’s arm and nose were visibly broken, and Harry could have put a safe bet on some ribs being broken too. “What’s happened?” he queried.

 

Draco, barely conscious now in the safety of Harry’s home, simply groaned.

 

“St. Mungos. I’m going to take you there.”

 

 _That_ seemed to rouse Draco a little. “No,” he said in a puff of fright.

 

“Malfoy, please.”

 

“Can’t...” and then Draco said something that sounded to Harry like ‘found’.

 

Harry paced to the floo, knelt and called St. Mungos. “Healer, needed, now! 12 Grimmauld Place.”

 

Harry stepped back before the floo sparked alive violently and out stepped two Healers.

 

They scurried around Draco. One Healer let a little gasp escape him, and the other cast stabilising spells Harry knew all too well from his tenure as an Auror.

 

“Draco... Draco...” soothed one of the Healers. “Come on son... wake up a little for me.”

 

“You’ve got yourself into a right state this time,” the gasping Healer told Draco.

 

“This time?” Harry asked, stepping closer as the Healers lay Draco out across the sofa and levitated him for better access.

 

The Healer looked at Harry with pursed lips.

 

“Not safe,” Draco croaked out. “He’ll find me if you don’t-“

 

“Draco, we go through this every time darling,” said the quieter Healer. “We must fix you up properly otherwise you risk seeing the afterlife.”

 

“Every time?” Harry squeaked. “Who’s going to find him?”

 

“Mr. Potter,” Harry registered one of the Healers addressing him, “we are going to take Draco here to St. Mungos and see if we can get him better. You’re more than welcome to come tomorrow and see him during visiti-“

 

“Fuck that,” Harry growled. “ _Accio Auror Robes_!” He cast loudly. From upstairs, a wardrobe banged open and in a flurry of fabric, several robes flew at Harry and landed at his feet.

 

One of the Healers raised an eyebrow whilst the other tried calming an ever agitated Draco who’s cries of indignation were rising to a frantic cry.

 

“I am now officially investigating _this_ as a criminal case,” he gestured towards Draco. “I will accompany you to St. Mungos.”

 

“Right you are,” said a Healer before leading the way to the hospital.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Only thing I could pull up from Domestics is several attempts to get Malfoy to press charges against whoever is doing this to him, and Malfoy continually refusing to do so. See here it says:

 

_Victim interviewed at 10:30 PM, April 5 th, 2003._

__

_ Victim: Draco Malfoy _

__

_ Incident: Battery, assault, grievous bodily harm resulting in broken ribs, cracked left femur, broken nose, bruising on face around mouth, eyes and chin, and scalding on the left forearm. _

__

_Victim refuses to press charges. Acting Auror Phillip Masters notes several attempts to push criminal charges against unknown suspect but must respect the wishes of the victim at this time._ ”

__

Harry gaped at Ron.

 

“This has been going on for years!”

 

“Right.”

 

“And there’s been no investigation of our own to ascertain who this fucking cunt is that’s causing,” Harry’s eyes were wild, the way they became whenever he was on a crusade, “and I quote: ‘ _Battery, Assault, Grievous Bodily Harm_ ’!”

 

“Harry, mate,” Ron tried calming Harry, putting a hand out to stop him pacing, “you know we can’t do _anything_ if Malfoy doesn’t name the suspect.”

 

Harry looked at Ron, strong and tall in his Auror robes. He felt he must look a mess, standing livid as he was in his old pyjamas and wrinkled Auror robes. Ron had pointed out that Harry had blood on his hands and face when he had shown up at St. Mungos, annoyed but ready to help his fellow Auror. Harry felt completely out of control.

 

“I know. I know.”

 

“You’re a bit emotional mate,” Ron told him. “I think I’m going to recommend you be removed from this case.”

 

“Of course I’m emotional,” Harry told Ron, “somehow Draco, without a wand might I add, found himself outside Number 12 in a broken and bloodied state. Now... he either new about my house before hand, which I doubt, or somehow that shell of a man in there has somehow been so desperate as to _break the laws of magic_!”

 

Ron shrugged.

 

“Auror Potter, Auror Weasley,” spoke a voice from beside them. The Healer addressing them was holding the door behind her open slightly with her foot. “Mr. Malfoy is waking up. You are free to assess him for a couple of minutes but please do not spook him... he is very prone to bolting.”

 

“You go talk to Malfoy,” Ron told Harry, “I’ll go start interviewing the staff here and build a picture of how many times exactly he has been here.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“And then I am reporting this case to Kingsley and recommending you be taken off it...” Ron trailed off when Harry’s eyes lit up maddened. “Seriously mate, you can’t do anything with Malfoy half heartedly. It’s always been like that.”

 

The Healer gave a little cough.

 

“Okay, I trust you,” Harry replied before turning and walking into Draco’s room.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Draco was writhing on the bed. “Let me go!”

 

“Malfoy,” Harry started, “can you please settle a little so I can talk to you?”

 

“I have to go,” he told Harry sternly, trying to take the covers off him. As he shifted, a necklace with a circular pendant appeared by falling out of the inside of his hospital clothes around his neck. Draco scrambled for it, and Harry instinctively crossed the room and softly swatted his arms away.

 

“What’s this?” Harry asked, reaching for the red string that held the pendant around Draco’s neck.

 

“Get off!” Draco screamed. The sound was shrill and full bellied - Harry had heard some screamed words in the past but this was by far the loudest and the most painful to hear.

 

Draco tried punching out, but the Healer was by his side in a second and soothed him mildly with a spell. The effect was enough that Harry could cut the string of the necklace with his wand and then pocket the crude jewellery. “I’m confiscating this, Malfoy,” Harry told him. “I think this could be the very thing that allows you to bolt from the hospital every time.”

 

Draco fell into heartbreaking sobs. They racked him for a long time before the Healer asked Harry to leave.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Here’s my full report,” Harry told Ron and Kingsley. He handed them a scroll of parchment tied with a yellow bow, a colour that indicated an open case. “Did you find out what the necklace was all about?”

 

“Yes Harry. A portkey.” Kingsley’s response was blunt and to the point.

 

“Leading where?”

 

“Honestly?” Kingsley asked rhetorically. “To some dilapidated barn in the middle of a field in South Wales.”

 

“And absolutely no magical signatures,” Ron told him. “Whoever is doing this is _good_.”

 

“And what about Malfoy now?” Harry asked, frantic.

 

“Well... he stays at St. Mungos,” Kingsley replied, matter of fact.

 

 _He’ll be all alone_ , Harry thought. “For how long?”

 

“We can’t keep him,” Ron answered, shuffling. “So, when he’s able to leave he will and that’s where the case ends.”

 

“As it always seems to do,” Harry replied. “Right. I think I know what to do,” Harry said as he turned to walk to the lifts that would take him the Ministry’s Atrium, where he could floo back to the hospital.

 

“Auror Potter,” Kingsley said firmly, “you are not an active Auror on this case. You are _not_ permitted to act in anyway as an investigating party.”

 

Harry turned around. “I know that. I remember when you told me off for ignoring orders in my first year here-“

 

“And second, third, and every year since then,” Ron added.

 

“Yeah well, I remember it,” Harry bit, “and I’m going to help Malfoy as a _friend_. He did come to me for help, after all.”

 

“Be safe!” Ron called after Harry as he stalked to the lifts.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“You are coming home with me,” Harry told Draco, having kept his Auror robes on despite not legally being allowed too. He felt it might give him some sway at the hospital to let him see Draco outside of visiting hours.

 

Draco was silent, staring ahead into space. He had spent all of his energy on his outbursts of rage and fright.

 

“Come on,” Harry told him, “you’ll be safe at mine.”

 

Draco did not answer.

 

Harry helped Draco stand, despite how heavy his almost catatonic state had made him. He checked Draco over for decency, making sure the hospital clothes concealed any private parts. He also avoided touching him anywhere that was bandaged. Draco winced with every step, but followed Harry’s guidance with no resistance.

 

At the floo, Draco turned to Harry and in a voice so soft it could have been a child speaking he asked, “Where’s my necklace?”

 

“Gone.”

 

Draco simply swallowed, hard, and nodded softly.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Let me go, Potter!” Draco screamed, backing up into the corner of the kitchen by Kreacher’s little home made cabin. Draco pressed his body as flat as he could against the cupboards, and the flatness of his body in the action made his starved and skinny form ever so visible.

 

“I won’t,” Harry told him firmly, holding two mugs whilst the kettle whistled on the stove. “What’s got you spooked now?”

 

Draco burst into tears and slid down the wall, bony knees coming up to hide his cowering face. A stream of consciousness followed:

 

“Please... let... let me go, I’m going to die here... you took my... oh fuck off with that... fuck... kettle is going to explo-...no, please, let me out,” Draco was shaking and rocking, “please, no more... no more tea please take that kettle of the... let me go let me go let me go if he finds me...”

 

“Who Draco?” Harry asked, coming to kneel down in front of Draco.

 

Draco simply wailed in response.

 

“Okay... okay... we will get to that later then,” Harry stood and put the mugs away and took the kettle dutifully off the hob. “Water.”

 

He spelled a glass full of water and knelt down next to the sobbing Draco again. “Here,” Harry told him, holding out the glass.

 

 

Draco did not move.

 

“Here’s some water, come on, have a drink,” Harry took Draco’s right hand away from where it had curled around his left leg, holding him together, and then Harry pressed the glass into his hand.

 

Like a coaxed animal, Draco lifted the glass to his lips. The glass shook violently. Harry wondered if Draco was only paying lip service, but whatever the initial intention, Draco drank down the glass of water feverishly once the first drop of it hit his tongue.

 

“Whoa there,” Harry chuckled. “Feel better?” Harry asked, taking the glass out of Draco’s hand.

 

Draco nodded.

 

“Want a sandwich?” Harry asked.

 

Draco nodded again.

 

“Kreacher,” Harry called. When the house elf appeared, Harry asked him kindly to prepare a sandwich for Draco with some crisps on the side.

 

When the plate had been set in front of Draco, Harry watched as tentative bites of food were slowly replaced by a hungry, starved wolfing down of the entire meal.

__

_All pureblood manners completely out of the window_ , Harry observed to himself.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry had looked at the clock, and it was seven in the morning by the time he managed to get Draco to sleep.

 

He sat in the spare room with Draco, heavily sedated under a potent Dreamless Sleep, and watched him through tired eyes.

 

He remembered the Healer telling him Draco had a tendency to bolt. Despite the removal of the portkey from his person, Harry concluded that Draco would still have the ability to leave the house at will and find his way back to whatever hell he had left.

 

Harry summoned Kreacher and asked for a coffee. Considering everything that he knew about the recent events, Harry sipped his coffee and wondered about the strength of magic it must have taken to breach the Fidelius Charm... if in fact that is what he had done. Even stranger was the choice Draco must have made to reach out to Harry in his time of such tragic need.

 

Or, of course, there was the possibility he wandlessly apparated to an address he somehow randomly knew.

 

The truth would have to wait, Harry knew.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

The Mind Healer stood in Harry’s living room as streams of light illuminated the room and Harry’s darkened eyes from lack of sleep.

 

“Mr. Potter, this will not be easy,” she told him. “You should be prepared for Draco to want to leave again. He is conditioned to believe that after such an incident his abuser will return to the sweet, loving person they had been _before_ the abuse. In fact, Draco probably believes he is the one at fault for receiving such punishment.”

 

“So, he will want to go back?”

 

She nodded. “Probably, however in our knowledge he has never gone to anybody else prior to going to St. Mungos.”

 

“I’m the only person other than a Healer who he has reached out too?”

 

“Most likely,” she agreed. “There is a strong chance that with the right encouragement he will want to stay.”

 

“Right. How do I do that?”

 

“Be patient, be kind, and listen.”

 

“And if he leaves...?”

 

“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” she told him. “The next stage in this cycle of abuse is highly likely to be death.”

 

She looked sour at the thought. Harry’s heart clenched.

 

“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

 

“I will be round to see him this evening, at seven. Can you make sure he’s awake then?”

 

“I will, thank you Healer Fox.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry watched as a Healer checked Draco’s body over again to assess healing. “You’re taking your potions on time?” he asked Draco.

 

Draco looked up at Harry, wide eyed and scared. Harry nodded encouragingly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s good,” the Healer replied, standing. “And how does this feel here?” he asked, prodding Draco.

 

“Painful.”

 

“That’s normal. If it’s still painful tomorrow let us know.”

 

Draco nodded, and when the Healer stood, slunk back into the duvet and covers as if that was the only thing protecting him from danger.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Two days after being released from St. Mungos to stay at Harry’s, and five major breakdowns where he either wanted to leave, was afraid whoever was abusing him was on his way to kill him, or was manically frightened of some spell or item in the house, Draco entered the living room where Harry was mulling over paperwork.

 

“Hello,” Draco said from the doorway.

 

“Hi,” Harry replied softly. Harry was moved by this side of Draco he had not yet seen. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Really shitty,” Draco replied, smiling softly.

 

“Hungry?” Harry asked, scanning Draco’s starved and bony form. Draco was wearing a jumper and thick muggle jogging bottoms but whilst they were fitting on Harry, they hung so loose on Draco, Harry worried he might be swallowed by them.

 

“Terribly,” Draco admitted, nodding so his long blonde hair, once vibrant and platinum and now lank and dull, waved with eager force.

 

Harry called for Kreacher and asked him for some of the hearty stew to be heated from the night previous... a meal Draco had refused to eat by throwing it at the wall of his bedroom.

 

“We will eat up here... you don’t seem to like the kitchen much,” Harry smiled encouragingly.

 

“No... I don’t,” Draco shuffled on his feet.

 

“Come, sit,” Harry urged, moving to the left cushion of the sofa to let Draco sit on the right.

 

Draco walked slowly, and sat worriedly on the edge of the sofa.

 

“Do you want to tell me why you don’t like my very outdated kitchen?” Harry tried to make a joke of it.

 

Draco gave a tiny smile. “It is rather outdated,” he agreed and then went silent for a minute. He turned to Harry. “The kitchen is where the kettle is,” he admitted, lifting up his left arm to indicate the scalding that was red and livid when he had first arrived at Harry’s.

 

The sleeve of the jumper sagged away from his forearm.

 

“Right...”

 

Draco nodded to indicate the truth in his confession.

 

“So it’s not just the brown tiles you don’t like?” Harry truly joked this time.

 

Draco chuckled, blushing. His shoulders were hunched, but his eyes had a sparkle. It looked to Harry as if the session he had had with Healer Fox had some impact, enough to draw out some positivity from Draco.

 

Draco shook his head. “I also hate that tacky lampshade you have over the table,” Draco ribbed.

 

“Oh tell me about it,” Harry agreed, “it’s disgusting.”

 

“It would be better off transfigured into a rubbish bin.”

 

Harry laughed. “Maybe Kreacher could use it for something.”

 

“No,” Kreacher said as he walked into the room, two steaming bowls of stew behind him and crusty bread following.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

They had eaten in silence and then Harry had turned to Draco and asked if he would like to play a game of cards, or chess, or some ridiculous board game he had acquired from a Weasley at some point.

 

Draco had just shaken his head, and took to walking around the room, looking at every book on the shelves. “This one,” he announced, pulling a book down.

 

He took it to Harry and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. “ _The Magicians Nephew_?” Harry asked, reading the title.

 

“Read it to me?” Draco asked, meekly.

 

Harry smiled and patted the sofa next to him, opened the book and delved right in.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“I was looking at older files,” Ron told Harry quietly in the kitchen a week into Draco’s stay at Harry’s. “I think we might have a lead.”

 

“And what if Draco doesn’t want to press charges?”

 

“If we can link this wanker to a list of cases, it won’t matter.”

 

“All you need is another victim to come forward...”

 

“If there is one,” Ron pointed out, sighing.

 

“No need,” said a voice from the doorway, “I’ll tell you what you need to know. But Harry has to be there, or I won’t do it.”

 

Ron looked up at Draco alarmed. “Malfoy...”

 

“Weasley...”

 

Harry looked nervously between them.

 

“I think that can be arranged,” Ron told Malfoy. “I’ll need to get Auror Hall though. He’s my partner on this case.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Draco said. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry had gone to sleep on the floor of Draco’s room, a habit acquired from fear Draco might bolt without warning, happy to be on the way to finding Draco’s abuser and throttling him into jail.

 

However, whilst Draco had fallen sweetly asleep as Harry read him _The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe_ , he had woken in a violent panic so contrasting his somnolent state but a few hours before.

 

Harry awoke with a start, scrambling to stand as Draco screamed and yelled, tangled in the covers.

 

“Draco... Draco...” Harry soothed, standing over the bed and trying to push Draco back down.

 

Draco gave Harry a right hook that sent him reeling.

 

“My wand! I want my wand!”

 

“Draco,” Harry said with as much softness as possible, rubbing his jaw. “Please calm down.”

 

Draco managed to get off the bed and tackled Harry. “Give me yours, Potter,” Draco seethed. “I need it.”

 

Harry rolled them both over, pinning Draco. Draco’s eyes were wild, showcasing a madness within. Harry, in that moment, wasn’t sure if Draco had regressed or had entered a completely new state of recovery.

 

“Kreacher!” Harry yelled. The house elf cracked into existence beside him. “Get a Healer here, quick! And summon my wand... yes... take it with you.”

 

Harry remained, pinning Draco beneath him. Draco kicked and bit out at Harry.

 

“Draco, stop it! Stop it! I’m here to help...”

 

“Get. Off. Me...”

 

“Draco, please, relax okay...

 

“I want to go home,” Draco seethed. “I want to go home...”

 

“Where’s home?” Harry tried as he heard footsteps pound up the stairs.

 

Draco laughed manically. “As _if_ I would tell you!”

 

Healers burst into the room, immediately calming Draco with a spell. Draco went limp beneath Harry, and Harry made to stand but found that as he was pulling away, Draco had reached out to grab his hand. “Stay with me...” Draco breathed, dozy beneath the spell.

 

Harry looked pleadingly at the Healers.

 

“You should stay with him whilst we get him to St. Mungos,” a Healer told him.

 

“Okay Draco,” Harry soothed. “I’m right here... I’m right here...”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“What _happened_?! ” Harry seethed. Healer Fox stood grounded as Harry stared worriedly at her.

 

“He offered to tell you everything, you said?”

 

Harry nodded.

 

“Well,” she explained, “he’s probably experiencing a trauma induced cognitive dissonance.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means he is incredibly conflicted about telling you who has been hurting him, in case his safe haven is taken away from him and his abuser takes control again.”

 

“But I won’t let that happen,” Harry said with stony resolve.

 

“I know that, Mr. Potter, but he is the victim of abuse that we know has been going on for years.”

 

Harry sighed and sat down on the chair opposite Healer Fox’s desk. “Surprisingly, I do know about that sort of thing. I was abused as a child.”

 

“There you go then.”

 

“But I never acted like this,” Harry explained. “I never acted like Draco did.”

 

“If I may be so bold,” Healer Fox said, “I would hazard a guess that your anger and trauma was channelled into your fight with the Dark Lord. Draco, it seems, has not the fortune of such an outlet.”

 

“I think we are all still affected by the war,” Harry muttered.

 

“Naturally, but Draco’s abuse is extreme and current.”

 

“I know. I’m just worried. I’m confused.”

 

“That’s to be expected. He’s told me that he feels close to you now. I imagine the feelings are returned.”

 

Harry nodded. “Will he ever get better?”

 

“Not fully, no. But he may grow into a healthy, different young man.”

 

“Different?”

 

“It would be foolish to think he wouldn’t be forever changed by what he’s going through.”

 

Harry nodded. He also held back tears.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Draco was refused leave from the hospital for a week. It was a long week, one in which Draco started hurting himself using any object he could find... resulting when he could in punching the wall until his knuckles bled if there was nothing else to inflict pain on himself.

 

“He needs to come home,” Harry insisted by the seventh day.

 

“We can try it,” Healer Fox told him. “I don’t think he’s a flight risk right now.”

 

They both looked at Draco, asleep on his hospital bed.

 

Harry was sad to see that the little bit of weight Kreacher’s stews and cakes had put on him was now gone.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“I’m sorry,” Draco told Harry on the second day he was back at Number 12.

 

“For what?”

 

“For losing it like that.”

 

Harry turned to Draco where they sat on the sofa, relaxing with pink French Fancies and glasses of milkshake each.

 

“I just wish you could tell me everything,” Harry confessed, sadness in his voice he truly meant.

 

Draco began to cry. It was not the sobbing, frightened crying he had produced when he had let tears fall before. It wasn’t the kind of crying that signalled a form of insanity. No, this crying was soft and open, vulnerable.

 

“Come here,” Harry said, pulling Draco towards him, wrapping his arms around his thin body. “It’s okay.”

 

“Yeah, with you it is. That’s why I came.”

 

Harry stilled. “I was wondering how you did that.”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco said into Harry’s neck. “I... I was lying on the floor and he was about to kick me again and I thought of you saving me from the Fiendfyre and there I was... here.”

 

Harry wanted to inhale in shock, but his face was too close to Draco and the effect could easily scare the blonde man.

 

“That’s quite impressive,” Harry noted. He rubbed Draco’s back, and Draco nuzzled closer as if he hadn’t been touched kindly in such a way his whole life. “Can we talk more about who it was kicking you?”

 

Draco did not move, did not yell, did not fall apart. Instead, he said, “My boyfriend.”

 

“Your boyfriend.” It wasn’t a question. Just a repeat, to let the information sink in.

 

“My boyfriend.” Draco said once again, but did not say anything else.

 

Harry knew he was on shaky ground.

 

They were still holding each other.

 

“Do you want to tell me more?” He asked.

 

“I want to tell you everything,” Draco told him, “but not just now. Now I want you to read to me...”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Once Draco had been touched comfortingly by Harry, he couldn’t get enough of it. He demanded Harry sleep next to him and hold his hand: “No more of sleeping on the floor like a dog,” he told Harry.

 

Harry strongly suspected Draco had slept on the floor like a dog for most of his relationship with the unnamed abuser. He kept it to himself that he knew, for a fact, that Luna slept with three dogs on her bed, much to the annoyance of Neville.

 

And when Harry woke in the morning, Draco was wrapped around him.

 

Over breakfast on the sofa in the living room, Draco sat pressed against Harry; arm to arm, thigh to thigh.

 

Harry was disturbed to find he didn’t mind it.

 

He didn’t mind sitting in on Draco’s session with Healer Fox, where she helped Draco break down the blocks he had regarding the kettle which was what Draco had _decided_ he wanted to work on. And he didn’t mind being pressed to Draco the same way as he had over breakfast.

 

What did disturb Harry somewhat was Draco coming into the sitting room after his shower with a towel in his hand, asking Harry to help him dry his hair.

 

“Your hair?” Harry asked shakily.

 

“Yes... please...”

 

“Oh... all right...”

 

Draco came and sat down on the floor in front of Harry who sat on the sofa.

 

Harry did the best he could, having never done this for anyone before.

 

“My parents are dead,” Draco said suddenly.

 

“Mine too,” Harry replied.

 

“My mum used to do this,” he told Harry. “She would dry my hair when I was little.”

 

“That’s very cute,” Harry whispered.

 

Draco stopped him, then turned around. “I think I would like to get it all cut off tomorrow,” Draco said determinedly.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Balthazar would never let me get it cut,” Draco admitted. Harry’s heart thumped loudly... he had a name now. “Once a year he would trim the ends off himself, telling me I had got ratty.”

 

“That’s horrible,” Harry breathed. He reached down and gave Draco’s shoulder a squeeze.

 

“I’m not going to your barbers though,” Draco said firmly, a glint in his eye. “If they can’t do a half decent job on that nest of a hair-do then I’m not letting them touch mine.”

 

Harry fell about laughing and Draco meekly joined in.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“It can be a muggle place if you want,” Harry told Draco as they stood on the steps in the sunshine at outside Number 12.

 

“Yeah, that would be best,” Draco replied. “You’re paying though,” He told Harry with a smirk.

 

“I should have thought so. You haven’t paid me rent yet!”

 

Draco looked worriedly at Harry. “I didn’t know I had too...”

 

“I’m joking, Malfoy...”

 

“Oh...”

 

“Come on,” Harry said, walking away. He decided he wasn’t going to indulge small slips into melancholy or defeat, at the advisement of Healer Fox.

 

Draco rushed after him, linking their arms together and leaning so hard into Harry that he nearly made them both fall over.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

That evening, Ron and his Auror partner, Tarquin Hall, sat on the armchairs across from the living room sofa at Number 12, with notebooks in their hands, jotting away as Draco revealed small details about his injuries and abuser.

 

“You’re looking fresh,” Ron had told Draco.

 

Draco had blushed at the compliment, not used to hearing them as he was.

 

This little connection seemed to calm Draco’s prior nerves, and it was noticeable that he opened up to Ron far more than he had thought possible.

 

“So, you say his name is Balthazar? Can you give me a family name?”

 

“Cook,” Draco replied, staring at his feet.

 

Ron and Auror Hall looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

 

“And can you tell us where you and Balthazar live?”

 

“Lived.” Draco was so strong in his reply that it both made him lean into Harry more and cause Harry to start with acute alarm. “I _lived_ with him. I don’t any more.”

 

“I am very glad to hear that,” Hall said encouragingly.

 

Trying his luck, Ron asked, “So where does this prick live then?”

 

Draco smiled at Ron.

 

“Chiddingstone.”

 

Again, Ron and Hall shared a look.

 

“You know of him,” Harry stated. Draco looked at Harry, searchingly.

 

“Yes,” Ron replied.

 

“Old cases... he was one of several men arrested in the past ten years for domestic related incidents,” Hall explained.

 

“Fuck... you guys really delved deep eh?” Harry asked, awed. “Thank you.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Draco told them all, making eye contact with each of them one by one.

 

“Draco,” Harry began, “what they are saying is that Balthazar has a history of hurting people and he has been arrested for it before. It means we have a higher chance of sending him to Azkaban.”

 

“But I don’t want him to go to Azkaban,” Draco said firmly, pulling away from Harry. “I love him.”

 

Harry had nothing to say to that. He looked helplessly at Ron and Hall.

 

“Okay,” Hall said standing up, “I think I’m going to sit and chat with Draco for a moment and Ron, can you go and make me some tea? Take Harry with you... he looks like he needs a cake or something. Tea Draco?” Hall asked.

 

Draco just stared at Harry in alarm.

 

“I’ll go get you a milkshake,” Harry told Draco, standing.

 

Draco looked horrified, and then resigned.

 

“Be back soon,” he told Harry.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“We were prepared for that,” Ron explained to Harry in the kitchen. He spoke quietly, his back to the door. “I don’t think you were.”

 

Harry shook his head. His eyes stung and his throat threatened to close. “What the fuck...? He _loves_ him?”

 

“Yeah... apparently it’s quite common,” Ron brought the kettle to the hob with his wand. “See... people in Draco’s situation become attached. They are drawn in by arseholes like Cook and made to feel like the only thing of importance in the world.

 

“Then the abuse starts slowly creeping in... little by little, enough that fuckwits like Cook can convince their victims into believe that A: it’s the victims fault that they provoke violent reactions and B: that every time is the last time and C: that the love between them is real. You only get into that situation over time, and it’s enough time to make someone believe their in love with their abuser.

 

“Anyway, I think I said that right. That’s what we have been briefed on.”

 

Harry stood, struck by the helplessness of it all. “So he thinks he’s in love with him because he’s been tricked into it?”

 

“Yeah, basically. And now it’s been long enough without any beatings that the vulnerable part of Draco probably believes everything will be fine if he goes back... and just as bad, Harry, is Draco thinking that he won’t press charges because if this cunt gets away again, he’s going to do it to some other man!”

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry confessed over the rising whistle of the kettle.

 

“Hall is in there right now, trying to coax the address out of Draco, subtly suggesting Azkaban is the right course of action. This was our plan. I needed to speak to you privately because I have some concerns.”

 

“What concerns?” Harry noted his voice was a little harsh, defensive even.

 

“You haven’t been to work in a while Harry,” Ron began, softly softly in order to keep Harry level. “Which is fine... we know this is important but... I see the way you two are together and I’m not sure it’s healthy for either of you.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You two are kind of attached,” Ron pointed out. “And that’s fine, that’s fine... but what happens when Draco decides to leave? And what will you do if you he decides to leave to go back to Cook and, even scarier to think about mate, is what will happen if you get the bit between your teeth and you go after Cook.”

 

“I won’t lie, I’m tempted.”

 

“See!” Ron shook his head, taking the kettle off the stove and charming it to work over mugs. Harry ordered, rather forcefully, Kreacher to make a chocolate milkshake. “You’re doing the obsession thing again... it’s the same obsessive thing you do when you care about something way too much.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Like what?”

 

“Like sixth year. Like Ginny getting her heart broken. Like when we found the witches who were putting love potions in the bottled soups!”

 

 _Like sixth year_. That rolled around in Harry’s head.

 

“Yeah well...”

 

“Just be careful mate,” Ron pleaded. “Please don’t get _your_ heart broken.”

 

Harry furrowed his brow. “I’m not in love with Malfoy.”

 

“Not yet,” Ron warned, “but if you continue caring for him the way you do, then you will be.”

 

“I won’t!”

 

“Okay, okay...” Ron agreed, unconvinced and noticeably so. “But it’s not just you getting attached that’s the problem... if Draco gets attached to you now, how can you be sure it’s because he likes _you_ or because he is just a broken man?”

 

“Thanks Ron,” Harry growled. “Lovely thought.”

 

That hurt Harry in a way that ignited recognition in a feeling he had been ignoring and no, it wasn’t love but it was adoration for Draco’s proximity, laughter, and recovery.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

When they arrived back in the room with cakes and shakes and tea, Ron found Hall scratching notes with his quill onto his notepad, and Draco sad looking forlorn with his hands in his lap.

 

He brightened considerably when he saw Harry, sitting up straighter and accepting his milkshake quickly so he could reach with his free hand and tug Harry down.

 

 _How can he be in love with Cook and then be like this with me?_ Harry wondered.

 

“I think we might have to skip the tea,” Hall said with feigned regret.

 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Shift ending soon.”

 

It was convincing enough.

 

“Harry saw them to the floo. Ron turned back, patted Harry on the shoulder and then left.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

In the next session with Healer Fox, she brought the conversation around the why Draco did not want to press charges against Cook.

 

“I don’t know why everyone is obsessed with that,” Draco pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have to know him... he’s really quite lovely when you know him.”

 

Fox paused, waiting for Draco to continue. When he didn’t, she prodded him with, “But he beats you, rather brutally.”

 

Draco said nothing, and his bowed in shame. “Only sometimes.”

 

Harry had been dragged into the session again, and he was once again pressed so closely to Draco that he felt each place of contact thrum with excitement. A needful, longing excitement.

 

“Enough that you have ended up in St. Mungos six times in the past three years.”

 

Draco shrugged.

 

“Your medical records show that you have had, in the past three years, two broken legs, six different ribs broken multiple times, a cracked sternum, broken arms and wrists, fingers and toes broken, nose broken, eye socket cracked, teeth knocked out, internal bruising, a ruptured kidney... should I go on?”

 

Draco shook his head angrily.

 

“To you that might be completely normal... but I ask you this. If it was Harry suffering all those things because of his boyfriend, how would you feel?”

 

“I would feel like killing the boyfriend.”

 

“Considering murder is illegal, would you want to see Harry help the Aurors punish the boyfriend? To put him in prison?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Would you want Harry to let the boyfriend get away with hurting him like he did?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because Harry had been _broken_. He doesn’t deserve it.”

 

“And you do?”

 

Draco stuttered then. He opened his mouth to protest, but only conflicted sparks of sound escaped him.

 

Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest.

 

“Do you think Harry would really mean it when he said he loved the boyfriend?”

 

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Draco scoffed.

 

“Is it working though?” Fox asked, a smile on her face.

 

Draco shrugged again.

 

At this point, Harry wasn’t sure who was pressing their side body into who. All he knew was the idea that Draco would want to kill anyone who hurt Harry was enough to shake the ground beneath him.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Do you think I really love Bal?” Draco asked in bed that night, before Harry could even begin reading aloud.

 

Harry turned his head to Draco, who was laying on his back staring at the ceiling.

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t?”

 

“I don’t think you could really love a monster like that,” Harry replied. “I don’t think someone who pours boiling water on you and breaks all your bones could really be deserving of anyone’s love.”

 

“Why don’t I want him to go to Azkaban then?”

 

“I don’t know, Draco.” Harry put the book down and turned to Draco, pulling Draco to his side to look at him face on. As they lay there next to each other, looking into each other’s eyes, Harry spoke gently. “I think you have been tricked into feeling love for him... maybe once you thought you deserved the pain... I don’t know. But please don’t let him get away with it.”

 

“Have you ever been in love?” Draco queried.

 

“Yes, once, with Ginny but obviously that didn’t work out.”

 

“Do you think that love is different between two men and a man and a woman... or a woman and another woman?”

 

Harry chuckled. “I don’t know... I haven’t ever been in love with a man.”

 

“Do men just hurt each other?” Draco asked. “Is that what it’s like to be in a gay relationship?”

 

“Not at all,” Harry confirmed, “Ron’s brother is engaged to an amazing man and they are very happy.”

 

“So it’s just me?”

 

“No, it’s not just you Draco. There’s plenty of people in the world who have been hurt like you have been.”

 

“For a while I thought it was because I was a Death Eater.”

 

“You used to be a Death Eater,” Harry responded, reaching out to take one of Draco’s hands. “Not any more.”

 

“Do you think anyone could ever really love me?”

 

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. “Of course!”

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “You’ll find someone eventually, I’m sure.”

 

Draco nodded, and Harry saw distress behind his eyes but Draco offered no more questions and so Harry rolled back over and read until Draco fell asleep.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry was lying on the sofa, and Draco was sat at the end of it with Harry’s feet in his lap. Harry was now reading _Prince Caspian_ and as they sat there in the early evening, Harry felt something shift.

 

It was announced by Draco crawling up the sofa and lying on his side beside Harry, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder, his leg slung over Harry’s, his arm resting over Harry’s stomach. He had forced Harry’s arm around him and then, after urging a surprised Harry to continue reading, picked Harry’s free hand up and rested it on his hair.

 

Slowly, Harry began stroking his hand through Draco’s hair. His body felt chilled, and he was internally running through his conversation about attachment with Ron. He knew he should move, put a stop to whatever this was, but he found he didn’t want to.

 

“Draco,” Harry began, putting the book down on the floor.

 

“Don’t stop,” Draco advised him, “or I’ll do it to you.”

 

 _That would be nice_ , Harry thought.

 

“Look, Draco... this could be dangerous you know... getting too attached to each other...”

 

“It won’t be, Potter,” Draco refuted.

 

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco snuggled closer.

 

“Are you going to testify against Balthazar?”

 

“Do you want me too?”

 

“That’s not for me to decide, Draco,” Harry told him. He knew it had to be Draco’s choice... that he couldn’t control Draco in this regard.

 

What he could do however, and he had full conviction this would work, is make sure that any advancement in the swelling attraction between them was separated from Draco’s vulnerability surrounding the abuse.

 

“I am going to, yes,” Draco confirmed.

 

Harry let out an audible breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.

 

“I’m really glad to hear that,” Harry smiled and kissed the top of Draco’s head.

 

”I want the chance to fall in love properly.”

 

“That would be nice,” Harry agreed.

 

“I don’t want to be hurt again.”

 

“I don’t want you to be hurt again either,” Harry replied, his hand still stroking Draco’s hair.

 

And then the floo came to life, and out stepped Ron. He took stock of Harry and Draco, rolled his eyes and walked further into the room. “I told you,” he said to Harry. “Are you two going to sit up or keep canoodling?”

 

Harry tried to sit up, and had to jostle Draco around a bit to do so. It left Draco laughing, and Harry delighted in the sound.

 

“I came here to tell you both that we have found Cook and arrested him.”

 

“Good,” Draco said, surprising Harry. “Thank you.”

 

“That’s all right,” Ron replied, nodding his head once. “It’s my job.”

 

“And we found this,” Ron reached inside his robes and took out Draco’s wand. It was in two pieces, the core spilling out in a sickened way.

 

Harry’s heart fell.

 

“It’s been like that for years,” Draco said to no one in particular. “Thank you though.”

 

“He really is an absolute cunt though, isn’t he?” Ron asked Draco.

 

Draco nodded, tearing up.

 

“Look, it’s the end of my shift and I’m knackered. I’m gonna leave you two love-birds to if tonight, but I’ll be round tomorrow. I expect the hearing will go through in the next couple of days.”

 

“I best get some nice new robes then,” Draco said lightly.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

“Are you nervous?” Harry asked later that night in bed.

 

“Of what?”

 

“Seeing Balthazar.”

 

“No. Not if you’re there.”

 

“I will be. Every moment of the trial.”

 

“Will you look at me?” Draco asked.

 

Harry thought it a very odd request seeing as he was looking right at Draco already. “I am,” he said.

 

“No...” Draco shuffled out of bed and came around to Harry’s side. He stood there, open. “Look at me...”

 

He pulled the extremely baggy t-shirt off his body, revealing bony arms and protruding hip bones and a body full of scars. Some, Harry noted, were quite clearly Balthazar’s doing and some were very much Draco’s. And then there was the cloudy remnants of a useless Dark Mark.

 

And Harry near choked when he realised he could make out scars of his _own_ doing on Draco’s chest.

 

“Do you think someone could love this?” Draco asked.

 

“Of course...” Harry replied, wary.

 

“What about all the other scars?” Draco tugged his pyjama bottoms down, revealing skinny legs covered in long scars clearly made by a knife that jutted out from baggy underpants.

 

Harry swallowed. “Draco...” he whispered.

 

“I’m quite fucked up,” Draco told Harry. He began to shiver slightly.

 

“Aren’t we all?” Harry replied. “I have my scars too.”

 

“Can I see?”

 

“I...”

 

“Oh come on, Potter,” Draco said, his old self peeking through. “Get it off.”

 

He pulled back the duvet from Harry, exposing Harry in his own pyjamas. He gently took Harry’s glasses off and put them on the bedside table under the lamp that cast a sweet glow over the room.

 

Harry’s heart was racing and his breathing came up a little short.

 

“We shouldn’t...”

 

“Don’t you want too?” Draco asked, stopping his pursuit. “Are you not...”

 

“I’m bisexual, Draco.”

 

“No, it’s not that...”

 

Harry sat up on the side of the bed.

 

“What is it then?”

 

“Do you think you could ever love someone that looked like me?”

 

Harry looked at Draco’s wanting, nervous expression.

 

“If we do this Draco... then we have crossed a bridge we cannot go back on.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means that... it all becomes very real.”

 

“Is that bad?”

 

“Not at all... I think.”

 

“Seriously, Potter!” Draco groaned. “I’m standing here in my bloody underpants trying to get your attention! Do you want me or not?”

 

“And if I say I do and we do this and one of us gets hurt...?”

 

“I have already been hurt enough. Nothing can hurt me now?”

 

“Yes,” Harry bit, “but what about _me_? What if I don’t want you to decide that this has all been some transitional period between Cook and your new life? That I don’t want to start something that might end? What if I don’t want to be some sort of...”

 

“Sort of what?”

 

“Therapy.”

 

Draco laughed then.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake Potter... let’s just go for a bike ride now and then, and eat Sunday roast dinners, and watch muggle films. It doesn’t need to be a big old drama...”

 

“You want to be my boyfriend?” Harry queried. “Is that what you’re getting at?”

 

Draco nodded. “I want you to run your hands through my hair forever.”

 

“That’s a big ask.”

 

“Running your hands through my hair?”

 

“No. Forever.”

 

“We could try for it...” Draco stopped, stilled, bit his bottom lip. “Am I reading this all wrong?”

 

“No,” Harry said resigned. “I’m just scared that you will get all better and leave.”

 

”I won’t.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“I’m willing to bet my good looks on staying around as long as you want me too.”

 

“You want to try then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You _really_ want this?” Harry asked again. “You want _me_?”

 

Draco nodded. Then he smiled wide. “As long as you want all this,” Draco said, gesturing to his scarred body.

 

“I do.”

 

“Can you stand up and please show me you then?”

 

Harry took Draco’s offered hand. He stood, stripped, and let himself be undressed fully by Draco until both they only possessed their nakedness.

 

“I don’t want any silliness, Potter,” Draco told him firmly. “I want you to top, and I don’t want you to protest as if I am some weakling virgin. Because I’m not.”

 

Harry, instantly hard, was kissing Draco and Draco’s neck, running his hands over exceedingly sharp hipbones and scarred arms.

 

“Okay.” Harry breathed.

 

“I want you to know something else,” Draco panted as they made their way to the bed.

 

“Mmm?”

 

“I love you.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Draco didn’t leave after the trial had ended, nor did he leave the year after. He _did_ however end up proposing to Harry a year and a half into their relationship, and he stayed.

 

He stayed, and they grew a family together, and there was no more clanging doorbells heralding a trauma of Draco’s and there was no more new scars on Draco’s body.

 

Except the small one on his thumb he got from playing with the kettle to show their youngest son not to be afraid of it.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
